


Victory Dance, Op. 49

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5317571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Over five millions audio tracks in the ship’s library,” he said, “and I have no idea what they even are.”</p><p>“Sort by genre and let it pick something classical at random.” To the questioning look he got, Veers answered with a shrug. “It’s all boring and slow stuff. Good for relaxing, and precious little else.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory Dance, Op. 49

“How was I supposed to know the composer was sent to Kessel?” Admiral Piett stuck a thumb at the loudspeaker and at the languid quenk jazz suite it was playing. “It’s the kind of music my mother would have liked. I thought it was an oldie from before we were born. And too… carefree for the Rebellion’s tastes.”

General Veers shook his glass, ice cubes clacking together. “Firmus, if you ever call _me_ old again I’ll bite your tongue out.”

A cold-eyed smile passed on Piett’s face. “You almost did last week, and please remind me, what was I calling you?”

“Don’t drag it out and just change the damned song!” Veers knocked back the drink in the meantime.

The music stopped. Piett swiped down the loudspeaker’s touch-screen, quirking an eyebrow. “Over five millions audio tracks in the ship’s library,” he said, “and I have no idea what they even are.”

“Sort by genre and let it pick something classical at random.” To the questioning look he got, Veers answered with a shrug. “It’s all boring and slow stuff. Good for relaxing, and precious little else.”

Piett rolled his eyes, but within a few moments he had the loudspeaker play something that started with an orchestra treading softly and solemnly. Piett stood halfway between the console and the sofa, presumably checking the acoustics.

“It’s a cheap trick but better than unwittingly breaking censorship laws.” Veers flopped back on the sofa, clinking again the ice cubes inside his empty glass, in time with the percussions that had begun to make themselves heard among the mellow strings. “Anyway, I hope you’re not getting distracted.” He pulled the loose flap of his uniform jacket fully open.

“Distracted? While you’re trying so hard to be seductive?”

Something in his tone made Veers feel like he’d gulped down a morsel of ice and it had stuck down his throat. But he fought back, “And while you pretend it’s not working.”

Piett turned his back on him, albeit defusing the gesture by removing his tunic and hanging it on the nearest chair. His composure thus regained, he sauntered to the sofa.

The music was louder now, the drums snappish and accompanying trumpets that sounded like military bugle calls. Or a civilian’s idea of bugle calls, for they meant fuck-all signal-wise.

“Shall we dance, General?”

“What?”

“It occurred me I haven’t done that since the senior cadets’ graduation ball.” He paused, and it was a good thing Veers was too dumbstruck to comment. “An occasion I’d rather forget.” While the music decelerated and softened again, he extended a hand. “You once bragged to me that you dirt-pounders are better at legwork than the navy. Prove it.”

Veers took that hand and kissed it. Still holding the glass in his right, he got on his feet and fastened that arm around Piett’s waist; he felt him shudder, when the cold glass pressed on his side through the thin cloth of the shirt. Most importantly, though, he watched him smile and he listened to the words that didn’t need to be spoken aloud—and would have drowned in the music, at any rate; the orchestra was putting fire in it like an army band at an Empire Day parade, and a female voice soon joined the instruments, chirruping in the stars knew what language.

Not the most danceable of tunes, but Veers improvised with what little he recalled of dancing classes at the academy, and boxing-borne habit of minding his footwork. Piett let himself be led around, as docile as sometimes he decided to be in bed, holding onto Veers’ left hand and his chest. They were standing too close for the steps to be comfortable, or indeed for the steps to be proper dancing steps rather than a half-arsed shuffling of feet, but they managed not to trample each other’s toes.

And it was the least that mattered, while that minute warm palm savoured his heartbeat and then slid down, tugged his shirt out of his trousers, and slipped inside to draw nails in circle over his midriff. He silently cursed the glass that kept him from returning the favour on the small of Piett’s back. But damn him if he was going to ruin the admiral’s good mood by dropping the blasted thing and scattering glass shards on the floor; tonight was the first time in three days Veers had seen him wear a different expression than a frown.

The singer stopped, the music turned into a fanfare fair and square.

“Firmus?”

“Can’t hear you.”

Well, Veers could hear him, and the teasing chime in his voice. He tilted his head, kissed the other man’s cheek, and said to his ear, “Out of curiosity, what is—”

A cannon shot rent the air, in perfect synchronism with the strings and brass.

They both froze in the middle of the room.

Another thundered, then a second and a third, weaker in progression. Fake, remarked the general’s brain; no artillery weapon in the Imperial arsenal, nor in any enemy one that had ever been shooting at his walker, would make that noise.

The music scaled down as well, as soft as it had started but with an undercurrent of beating drums.

“The library said it’s called Victory Dance, Opus Forty-Nine,” Piett dared speak again. “I was under the impression it meant it literally.”

“How uncultured of you.” Not that _he_ wouldn’t have made the same mistake, in all likelihood.

“At least we’re safe from treason, since the composer’s death pre-dates the end of the Republic by two centuries. Unless the databanks are misinformed.”

“Well, I guess _we_ aren’t the only ones in galactic history to ever have had victories to celebrate?”

Piett tried to squirm out of his arms. “Let me change it—”

“Hush, hush!”

The orchestra rose into another crescendo, on the same parade-ground flourish that had preceded the cannon shots earlier on. Veers grinned. “I thought this stuff was supposed to be boring! Do you think I can guess what model of field gun these amateurs used?”

“Army men,” Piett gibed. “I’m buying you a round if you can.”

“Sorry to be paranoid, sailor,” Veers raised his voice over the speeding fanfare, “but a round of what?”

“Blue milk. It’s probably stronger than that whiskey.”

Veers began to protest, but it quickly sputtered out after Piett had pulled up his shirt and started scraping up and down his skin.

He almost didn’t hear the cannon.

**Author's Note:**

> After a tumblr prompt: "wanna dance?"
> 
> Music gracelessly stolen... eh, I mean, used for this prompt: [It Had To Be You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbDqp1JV5lU) and, of course, [the 1812 Overture, Op. 49](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbxgYlcNxE8).


End file.
